


What They Don't Know

by Mishafied



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, the pairing is mostly hinted at
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9754049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishafied/pseuds/Mishafied
Summary: There’s a lot that Marius’ friends don’t know about him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. This work contains EXPLICIT self-harm in the form of cutting and depictions of untreated mental illness. It WILL trigger you if you're at all sensitive to that.
> 
> This is an intensely personal piece for me and I agonized for weeks over whether to post it or not. I figured if even one person finds it a comfort, it's worth my discomfort in posting it publicly.

There’s a lot that Marius’ friends don’t know about him.

 

They don’t know that he’s completely broke. Some of them know him from high school, when his grandfather funded every single thing he did, and they inevitably told their new friends now that they were in college, leaving them all under the impression that Marius is still living on his family’s dime.

 

They don’t know that he hasn’t spoken to his grandfather in two years now. That he’s sent back any money his grandfather has sent him.

 

They’ve never asked, and he never told them.

 

So when Eponine needs a bit of money for a textbook, or Grantaire gets a bit behind on his bar tab, they know Marius will come through for them. They always offer to pay him back, but it’s a token offer- they already know he’ll refuse any repayment.

 

They don’t know that the money he gives them is scrounged together from his work on the side doing translation and transcribing online, or skimmed from the very little extra he gets from his student loans every semester. He doesn’t want them to know.

 

He wants to be helpful. He wants to be liked.

 

And deep down, he fears that if he becomes someone who needs their help instead, that they won’t want to be around him as much.

 

He learned a long time ago that when you require more than your fair share of attention, it doesn’t result in anything good. It results in punishment, ridicule, and isolation. And a part of him knows that they’re his friends and they would be _different_ , but after a lifetime of fear and self-loathing, it isn’t so easy to believe his own thoughts.

 

So he doesn’t tell them. He gives them the last five or ten dollars from his pocket, he lets them use one of the two meals he gets on his meal plan each day, and he just smiles and tells them he’ll be fine. Because he will.

 

He’s always fine. He has to be fine. If he’s not fine, he’s not useful. And if he’s not useful, he’s not wanted.

 

His friends don’t know how much their words cut into him like barbs under his skin. And the sad thing is, the words aren’t meant to hurt. He knows that, he hears the same kinds of insulting jokes being tossed around at everyone else, but it still _hurts_.

 

But no one else is hurt by the jabs, not that he can tell, so he just smiles and laughs along with them. He laughs at his own expense, when he knows that the moment he steps out the door, he’ll be too emotionally exhausted to even think about smiling the rest of the night.

 

But his friends are happy. That’s the important part. As long as everyone else is happy, that means Marius is doing his job right. He’s being a good friend. Good friends make people happy, not drag them down with their own worries and troubles.

 

Marius didn’t have it bad, compared to some of them. He never went without food or shelter. He was never beaten. If his family was standoffish to a fault, well then, that was a small thing compared to the suffering some of his friends have gone through.

 

His own depression over the things his grandfather said seems silly and nonsensical when compared with Eponine’s abusive parents, or Courfeyrac’s chronically ill father.

 

Words could hurt, but they’re just words, in the end.

 

He has no right to complain.

 

But it has to come out somewhere, and it does- in blood, usually.

 

Because that’s the other thing his friends don’t know about him. They don’t know why he always wears long sleeves; they tease him about it, about wearing silly light sweaters or jackets even when it’s eighty degrees and humid, and he just makes a joke about being cold-natured and moves the conversation along.

 

They don’t know both his arms are covered in years of scars, some from nearly a decade ago, some only days old. They don’t know about the supply of razors he keeps close at hand, hidden away in his nightstand so that Courfeyrac won’t find them when he’s in the bathroom in the apartment they share. They don’t know that everything gets so pent up in his mind that he doesn’t feel truly at ease until his worries are dripping away in the blood that traces paths across his skin.

 

He’s careful. He’s always so careful, because he knows that if they knew, they would be appalled. He wouldn’t be the friendly, helpful, cheerful Marius they knew anymore; he would be tarnished. Broken. A burden instead of a comfort.

 

If he’s a burden to them, he’s not useful. And if he’s not useful, then…well, what’s the point of him, anyway?

 

His grandfather had seen the scars, once. The memory of it is enough to make Marius shudder, enough to leave him cold, remembering the way that firm hand had grabbed onto his wrist and pulled his arm into the light.

 

_“Well, it’s not deep enough to kill you, so you’re obviously not trying to die. But if you’re looking for attention with these ridiculous antics, you’re not going to get it.”_

 

The words were like a bell struck inside his head, painful, resonating, and they bring the shame welling to the surface all over again. He’d had waking dreams of someone seeing the scars and cuts and holding him close, telling him it would be alright, dreams of someone having an answer as to why his brain doesn’t seem to work quite right, why his own thoughts feel like poison in his head.

 

In a few seconds, his grandfather had put him back in his place, and reminded him how silly those dreams were. His troubles are a burden to himself and everyone else, and he can’t allow himself to be a burden to the people most important to him.

 

So he works tirelessly to keep his secrets. He gives away the last money in his wallet, he readily offers meals from his meal plan to his friends who aren’t on scholarship and are low on money, and he never leaves his room without sleeves covering up his shredded arms, the skin a mosaic of white and red scars, the itchy scabs like braille under his fingertips.

 

He doesn’t tell them that he doesn’t go home for the holidays. He packs up his bag and pretends to go home, but instead uses what little money he has saved by each break to stay in a hostel a few towns away.

 

He knows any one of them would let him stay with them on breaks, but he doesn’t think he could take being that kind of a burden, that kind of intrusion on someone else’s life. He comes back from break, and if anyone asks him what he did, he says he studied.

 

It’s the truth. They make jokes about him never doing anything other than studying, and life goes on. No one is the wiser.

 

It’s exactly how he wants to keep it. He tries to convince himself that as long as his friends are happy, he’s happy.

 

In truth, he feels like an hourglass that has a hole in the bottom, the sand all spilling out until he feels hollow. He isn’t sure how long he can keep this up, how long he can plaster on that smile and pretend like he’s not being eaten alive by his own insecurities.

 

He’s running out of space on his arms. Every scar has been reopened two or three times over, and lately, the cuts are deeper.

 

But he has control of it. He’s been doing it for nine years, he knows how deep he can cut. He knows how hard to press with a brand new blade, and how much harder he needs to press once it goes dull.

 

And maybe the only thing that has him worried is that lately, the tears don’t come when he slices open his skin. It had always been an emotional release for him, but lately, he finds himself dry-eyed, staring at the way the blood wells up from the cuts, and then he laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He laughs at the fact that he grades himself on how symmetrical the cuts are, or how one might not be as deep as the rest.

 

He’s going numb to it. Not physically; it still hurts. It hurts when the razor blade bites into his skin, and it hurts a lot more the day after. But the pain is necessary; it’s a reminder that his secrets need to be kept, that he’s not good enough if he can’t keep his troubles to himself.

 

He doesn’t dare imagine that anything good could come of his friends finding out just how far gone he actually is. How his arms ache and the sweat stings at the fresh cuts. How he goes to bed hungry most nights because he gave away one of his two daily meals, plus any money he might have had to purchase another meal.

 

His friends are happy, so he’s happy.

 

He has to be happy. He’s the one who’s supposed to be cheerful, optimistic, and perhaps a little ditzy.

 

No one would want him if they knew the truth. Everyone has their own problems, and Marius is the person they come to when they want to forget, when they need a shoulder to lean on. He’s like a crutch for them- and no one keeps a broken crutch.

 

He should have known that they would eventually find out one of his secrets. He never expected that they would find out about all of them in one fell swoop.

 

It’s his own fault that it happens, really. He completely forgot that their usual meeting got moved to Friday night, since Joly and Combeferre both had final exams on Thursday evening. It was nearly Christmas break, and Marius knew he didn’t have enough money saved to stay in the hostel this time, but he couldn’t worry about that and his exams at the same time.

 

He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Or sleep under the bridge, as the case might be.

 

His mind was a mess, his thoughts fleeting and forgetful. So on Friday after his classes, Marius went back to the apartment and immediately shut himself in his room. His exams the next week loomed over him, and he needed to study, but the uncertainty of where he would go for break was hovering in wait to fill in the gaps of stress that even exams couldn’t reach.

 

He needed a distraction. He needed a release. He couldn’t complain to any of his friends- they all had their own worries, most worse than his, and he wouldn’t burden them with his troubles. He couldn’t.

 

Marius was supposed to be the cheerful one. The supportive one.

 

He paid the price of his deceit in blood, willingly, even with a measure of relief. It was familiar, it was safe, and it bothered no one but himself.

 

It was nearly ritual by now. He took off his cardigan, got out the small bag from his nightstand and sat down cross-legged on the bed, and then took out the small plastic container he kept his razors in. They were new razors- he’d just thrown out the old ones two days ago, and he felt relieved at the fact that it would be easier to draw blood with these.

 

The first cut always went deeper than the rest, until he got a feel for the blade. He made a few cuts, and the frustration hit him- he felt the pain, but the emotional release wasn’t there. He couldn’t bring himself to cry, or even to laugh, to do any of the things that made him feel like it was working.

 

He was failing at being a failure. True Pontmercy, right there, his friends would have said with a teasing tone.

 

He gritted his teeth, steeled his will, and cut again. This cut, though, went deeper than most, and blood spilled down his arm like a faucet partly opened. He cursed and fumbled for one of the other items in the bag- a packet of gauze. He didn’t have to use it often, so he was more distressed than he’d been when he started as he tore open the package with his teeth and shoved the gauze against the cut.

 

It bled through instantly.

 

A knock on the door made his heart stop for a moment, and he took a deep breath as Courfeyrac’s voice came through the door.

 

“Marius? Are you coming?”

 

Marius blinked and looked at the clock on the nightstand, and that was when he remembered the meeting. It was the last meeting before the holiday, Enjolras would be upset if he missed.

 

He couldn’t upset his friends. Couldn’t. He lifted the gauze and glared at the cut on his arm, though a part of him knew it was bad, knew it was too deep, the edges not even close to coming together.

 

It was just a cut. It would stop bleeding eventually.

 

His friends needed him.

 

“I’m coming!” he called out, and he reached into his bag and pulled out the roll of gauze there. Surely if he wrapped it, the bleeding would slow and eventually stop. He’d been in pain for meetings before, he could manage it again without giving himself away.

 

He wrapped the gauze heavily around his arm, tighter than was comfortable, and then he tied it off and stood up. He made his second mistake of the night- or third?- and pulled on his blue cardigan over the top.

 

Courfeyrac was waiting by the apartment door with that puppy dog grin, though it faded a bit when he saw Marius. “Are you okay? You look a little pale,” he asked, and Marius forced a smile as he grabbed his coat and pulled it on.

 

He’d always been good at faking a smile.

 

“I’m fine. I’m always pale, which you frequently point out,” he pointed out, hoping his voice wouldn’t waver, and it didn’t. Courfeyrac just rolled his eyes and led the way outside.

 

Marius followed, his arm throbbing and burning with pain. It was familiar, but more pain than usual; he reminded himself that he’d wrapped it and kept up the façade as Courfeyrac complained about a group project as part of his final in his history class.

 

Marius responded when appropriate, and tried to ignore the unsteady, slightly lightheaded feeling that plagued him more and more as they walked. It was just stress. It was always just stress.

 

Luckily, the café where they had their meetings wasn’t far. The rest of the group was already gathered in the section by the front windows, though the meeting hadn’t officially started, and everyone’s attention turned when Courfeyrac and Marius came inside.

 

“About time,” Grantaire said with a smirk. “Marius, you’re never late. Too much studying?”

 

“I don’t think it’s possible for Marius to study too much. He would need a time turner to pull that off,” Courfeyrac said, and he grinned as he grabbed the can of Pepsi from Combeferre’s hand and took a swig of it. Enjolras scoffed as Marius started to take off his coat, his movements almost mechanical. He really wanted to sit down.

 

“Alright, now that everyone’s finally decided to show up, we can get started,” Enjolras said. “We need to discuss the first…Marius, are you _bleeding_?”

 

Marius’ head snapped up at the mention of his name, and he immediately looked down in horror. The blood had evidently soaked through the gauze, and right through the blue fabric of his cardigan, and he immediately reached over to cover it with his other hand.

 

“Really, it’s fine. Just a small cut, I banged it on the breakfast bar at the apartment, you know how clumsy I am,” he said, the words coming out in a nervous torrent, every evasive excuse running into the next.

 

“Marius, your sleeve is soaked. Let me have a look,” Joly said, reaching out to take Marius’ arm in his hand, and Marius pulled away as if scalded- and that alone was enough to prompt a stunned silence from the group.

 

“Sorry,” Marius muttered. He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, a strange exhaustion settling in. He was in full fight or flight mode, but his mind felt muddy. “It’s nothing, just…just _leave it be_.”

 

His protests weren’t enough, and then Courfeyrac was at his side, taking hold of his arm, and Marius couldn’t push him away. He couldn’t. Courfeyrac had been his closest friend for so long, pushing him away would hurt worse than any cuts-

 

- _you’re about to lose him, you know that_ -

 

But he was too tired, physically and mentally, to fight it. Courfeyrac pushed his sleeve up, and Marius heard his sharp intake of breath at the sight of the bright red soaked gauze. Marius squeezed his eyes shut; he didn’t want to see the look on Courfeyrac’s face, or anyone else’s for that matter, when they saw his bare skin.

 

Judging by the sharp, hissed curse that came from Grantaire when the gauze came away, he’d made the right decision.

 

“Oh my god, Marius,” Courfeyrac said, and Marius shook his head, opening his eyes but keeping his gaze resolutely locked on the floor.

 

“I’m sorry-“

 

“You need a hospital,” Joly said, and Marius looked up, eyes going wide as he shook his head.

 

“No, no, I can’t- I can’t afford it-“

 

He wanted to kick himself. Another secret out in the open, like a horse kicking open the barn door.

 

“What do you mean, you can’t afford it?” Eponine asked with a confused and worried frown. “You gave me forty dollars last week, can’t your grandfather-“

 

“Don’t. Please,” Marius begged even as Joly pressed a handful of napkins against the cut. His arm was shaking now in Courfeyrac’s grip, and when he caught a glance at his roommate, the man looked devastated.

 

Marius’ world was falling apart beneath him. He’d upset them. There was no taking this back. He was tarnished, broken, he was a _burden_.

 

“No, I’m not leaving this alone. You’ve been loaning me money all semester, Marius, how can you not afford the emergency room?” Eponine asked, her tone more firm now, and Marius felt the sting of tears in his eyes and tried to blink them away.

 

“It was from my translation work, that’s all,” he said, and he looked down again, starting to tremble all over. “I…haven’t spoken to my grandfather in two years.”

 

Luckily, Enjolras decided to take charge before another round of questioning could start. He’d already grabbed his car keys, and he nodded to Courfeyrac and Joly. “You two, get him out to my car. We’re going to the hospital.”

 

Marius winced. “But-“

 

“No,” Enjolras said firmly, but his voice was almost gentle. “We’ll cover you, Marius. Combeferre, start up a collection. At least one of those cuts needs stitches. You’re pale as a sheet, Marius.”

 

And Marius was struck dumb as Courfeyrac and Joly led him out to the car, because he hadn’t dared to imagine this- hadn’t dared to think that anyone would be so concerned, rather than upset or irritated, and he wondered if this was a dream. But the pain radiating up his arm felt real, worse now that Joly was holding pressure on it, and the light-headedness felt all too real as well, along with Courfeyrac’s arm around his waist, urging him into the backseat.

 

He was waiting for it, the inevitable moment when the scolding would start, the ridicule, and with Courfeyrac sitting on one side of him and Joly on the other- and now Grantaire was sliding into the front passenger seat with a grim look- there really was no escape from this. Marius’ chest felt tight and he was trembling all over, couldn’t stop it, like a hum of anxiety and pain under his skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words almost torn from him as he kept his eyes on the floor of the car. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I swear, I thought it would stop-“

 

“Marius,” Courfeyrac said as the car jolted away from the curb, and his voice was gentle, not the lash of a whip as Marius had feared. “It’s alright. Don’t apologize, okay? Just…why didn’t you _tell_ us?”

 

“It’s not important.”

 

There was a sound of disbelief from the front seat, and Grantaire twisted around to look back at him incredulously. “Not important? Marius, this is pretty much the opposite of ‘not important’. How long has this been going on?”

 

Marius’ mind was desperate for something to focus on other than the conversation at hand. He thought about how many laws Enjolras was probably breaking right now, and strangely enough, he thought about how much he wanted to go home and lock himself in his room with his razor blades. “Nine years,” he nearly whispered.

 

“Nine years?” Courfeyrac repeated with wide eyes. “Since you were _thirteen_? And no one knew?”

 

Marius shook his head. “Just…just my grandfather. He told me to stop being ridiculous.”

 

Enjolras cursed, and when Marius glanced up, he could see that the blonde had a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He tried not to think too much into it- he was tired. He just wanted to go home and curl up in his bed and never leave again. If he’d felt hollow before, now he felt like someone had carved out his insides with a knife.

 

“We always teased you for wearing long sleeves all the time. Fuck, we should have known something was wrong,” Grantaire said, and Marius shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

“I didn’t want- I didn’t want you to know,” he insisted, and he felt Courfeyrac wind an arm around his shoulders and tug him in close.

 

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it right now. Just relax,” he said softly. “Joly, is it…?”

 

There was a pause, and Marius didn’t open his eyes, didn’t pull away from Courfeyrac as the pressure on his arm let up for just a moment.

 

It was just a nightmare. He would wake up any second, and he would study for his contract law exam, he would work on the transcription job due Monday, he would-

 

“Still bleeding,” Joly said, shattering the brief illusion Marius had tried to build for himself. He opened his eyes to see Joly tighten his hold on the bundle of napkins pressed against his arm, though the cloth was stained bright red with blood.

 

“We’re almost there,” Enjolras said from the front seat; the campus had a hospital only a few blocks away, where the medical students did most of their hands-on training. Marius had only been there once, when Bahorel had gotten in a bar fight and ended up with a fractured wrist.

 

“If you haven’t spoken with your grandfather in two years, where have you been going for breaks?” Courfeyrac suddenly asked, and Marius shook his head.

 

“I…I just…” he stuttered, trying to think of any excuse, anything that sounded better than the truth but still believable; he came up empty. “I just stayed at the hostel in Riverside.”

 

“Marius,” Courfeyrac said, and that one word sounded so heartbroken that Marius couldn’t even bear it, couldn’t look up. “Any one of us would have let you come stay with us for breaks. Any of us. Even Enjolras, and he’s a heartless bastard.”

 

That, at least, got a ragged laugh from Marius, and a roll of the eyes from their driver as the car pulled to a stop.

 

“Come on,” Joly said with a gentle voice, and he managed to keep pressure on Marius’ arm even as he helped him out of the car and into the emergency room doors.

 

The constant stream of questions ended, but it was replaced with sitting in a curtained off room in the emergency room as a doctor stitched up the worst cut on his arm and bandaged the others. The most uncomfortable part came when, with Courfeyrac sitting right there watching with worry, the doctor asked if Marius was a danger to himself; Marius quietly assured him that he wasn’t, and the doctor left it at that, obviously accustomed to this sort of thing.

 

Courfeyrac, of course, was less so. As soon as the doctor left, Courfeyrac stood up and pulled Marius into a tight hug where he sat on the edge of the hospital bed.

 

“I’m scared for you,” he said softly, and Marius hesitated for only a moment before returning the hug with his one good arm. And when he did, the dam finally broke.

 

He found himself clinging to Courfeyrac tightly, probably painfully tight, and once the tears started, he couldn’t stop them. He sobbed raggedly into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his whole body trembling, and he didn’t know what hurt more- the uncertainty of the future, or the fact that he felt like he’d disappointed his friends in so many ways.

 

“It’s alright. It’s gonna be okay,” Courfeyrac said, one hand stroking Marius’ hair. “Listen, fuck your grandfather and fuck whatever he said. The psychology department offers free counseling, and we’re going to sit down and call them tomorrow and get you an appointment. No more loaning out money, either. And you’re coming home with me for Christmas, so my mom can make you the best damn apple pie you’ve ever tasted in your life, and everything will be _alright_. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day or even next month, but I swear to you, we’re going to make things _right_.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Marius choked out, pulling back a bit, but still not quite able to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for…for _any_ of this, I just…”

 

“I get it. You didn’t want us to worry about you, right?” Courfeyrac asked, and Marius swallowed hard and nodded, because that was close enough to the truth. Courfeyrac touched his face, gently wiping away a tear as it fell, and Marius finally looked up.

 

The dread melted away; the only thing he saw in Courfeyrac’s expression was concern, and something close to love. And no one had ever looked at Marius like that, not once, leaving him surprised that he could recognize it for what it was at all.

 

“No one can be strong all the time, Marius. Everyone needs help sometimes,” Courfeyrac said with a smile. “That’s why you have us. We’re your friends, and we’re going to help you. That’s what friends _do_.”

 

“I’m-“

 

“Don’t you dare apologize again,” Courfeyrac said, and Marius laughed weakly, and wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve.

 

“…alright,” he finally said, because he was tired, and he knew it was over. The secrets were over, the hiding was over, and while it felt like he’d been cut adrift in a storm, Courfeyrac was offering himself as an anchor.

 

And Marius had never been able to turn Courfeyrac away.

 

“Alright. I’ll…I’ll give it a try,” he finally agreed, and Courfeyrac smiled brightly, his features lighting up with joy.

 

“That’s the spirit,” he said, and he tugged Marius into another quick, tight hug. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. The guys are probably worried sick out in that waiting room. We’re going to go home, make some hot chocolate, and watch some really awful sci-fi channel movies so you can get really pissed off about the improbability of a shark filled tornado. You’re hilarious when you get pissed off at bad movies.”

 

And Marius laughed, not just at the joke, but with the sheer relief of having a shred of _hope_ in a night that could have been the worst of his life.

 

His friends had seen the worst of him, and they weren’t turning away.


End file.
